


Valiance

by thilesluna



Series: That Lunael Collection [6]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Guard Miles, King Michael, M/M, king AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-03 08:46:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8705614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thilesluna/pseuds/thilesluna
Summary: King Michael is beloved by his subjects. One, perhaps, more than others. (There's an argument, a witch, a mission, and a daring rescue)





	1. The Beginning

King Michael is beloved throughout his kingdom. In the years of his rule, the people have blossomed and thrived and his alliances with the other kingdoms within the lands of Achievement have fostered long friendships. He is the perfect king, with one and only one, exception.

“I don’t _need_ a spouse to rule _my_ kingdom,” he mutters as he walks the halls of his castle. “I am perfectly capable of running this place on my own. I’ve been doing it for years, haven’t I?” He’s talking aloud to himself, a sign that he is truly stressed. “Why do I need to get married anyway? It’s not like I can’t make decisions on my own!”

A guard at the end of the hallway tilts his head as he listens and the king catches the movement.

“Do you have something to say on the matter?” he snaps.

The guard jumps and bows immediately, his face flushing red. “I’m sorry, your highness. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to—“

“Well do you have something to say? Spit it out!”

He takes a deep breath. “Being married isn’t about being unable to make your own decisions,” he says carefully. He seems to remember who he’s talking to because he hastily adds on a quiet “Your Highness.”

Michael rubs at his eyes. “What is it about, then? Are they not forcing me to get a second opinion on all the things I do? King Ramsey continues harping on the idea _sharing_ the rule with his wife. He seems to enjoy it but am I not doing a good enough job on my own?”

“You are, sir,” the man replies. “You are a _great_ king. You’re fair and just and you protect your people with a ferocity that many do not even feel worthy of.” Now it is Michael’s turn to blush. The man speaks so passionately, sounds so _sure_. He recovers and walks closer to the guard who straightens.

“Then why do I need to be married?” he demands.

“Marriage is—it’s a _compromise_ ,” the guard says. “It’s a joining of two people who respect and care for each other and it’s like, a checks and balances system for your life, Sire.”

“So I need to be checked?” Michael asks, incredulous. “Am I unbalanced?” He’s being slightly unreasonable, he knows.

The guard sighs, shaking his head. “It’s not about being unbalanced! You mistook what I was saying…Your Highness.” His eyes search Michael’s face, his expression frustrated. “I don’t think you should be married just because the court wants you to be, but I think that if you found someone who you cared for, who challenges you to be _better_ than maybe you wouldn’t be acting like—like an indignant child, _sir_.”

Michael gapes at the guard who stands his ground. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” he spits and finally, the man looks away.

“I’m just a guard. Forgive me, Your Highness.” He looks up to meet Michael’s eyes again and his gaze isn’t the submissive one Michael was expecting. Instead, the guard’s expression is challenging, his eyes blazing.

Michael falters and then turns on his heel and leaves, planning to never see the man again.

\---------

Except.

Now he’s got another problem because he can’t stop thinking about the guard. He’s confused which makes him annoyed because what the guard was saying made _sense_ and actually sounded kind of…nice. What a fucking _asshole_.

He spends the entirety of the next day thinking about it. He paces his rooms, the dining area, and the combat practice fields. It gets to the point where Andy, his advisor, asks if he’s feeling all right. Michael lies through his teeth, saying that he didn’t sleep well the night before—well that might have been actually true—and that he’s just anxious about the upcoming session of court. Andy, wisely, accepts the clear lie and suggests Michael retire to his room for a break.

He goes, but not to relax. The books he attempts to read are tossed within a couple of minutes, the letter he begins to pen to King Gavin of the neighboring kingdom lies half finished on his desk. He can’t even bring himself to practice with his wooden sword on the dummy kept in his quarters. When the bell chimes, signaling the change of guard, he practically runs from his room, slowing only when he rounds the corner to the same hall he found himself in the night before.

The guard looks surprised to see him and immediately stiffens where he’s standing. “Y-Your Highness?”

“What is your name?”

He blinks slowly before seeming to understand the question. “Luna, sir. Miles Luna.”

Michael stalks closer to him, stopping only ten feet away and Luna shrinks back slightly. Michael stops. “Are you afraid of me?”

“Honestly?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely terrified,” Luna says, swallowing. “I thought you were going to have me killed.”

Michael takes a step back, horrified. “What? Why?” He’s not—he’s never been the kind of king to execute people unless the harm they’ve done is something unforgivable. He has killed, out of necessity in battle or to protect those he cares for but—

“I spoke too frankly. I disagreed with you openly. I said you were acting like a _child_!” Miles says, voice cracking. “I spoke out of turn, interrupted your contemplation! Take your pick, Your Highness. I expected to be dragged from my bed this morning and taking to the cells!”

“Why would I—I wouldn’t kill someone for being honest with me,” Michael says carefully.

Miles blushes and looks away. “I was—I’m not from your kingdom, I’m a transplant. Things were _different_ in my home.” His voice falters for a moment. “Growing up, I was very close with the daughter of the king and when we turned 16, she was told to pick a husband. The thing _was_ that she had been seeing one of the boys in the guard training with me. They were totally head-over-heels in love with each other and she was my best friend! So…I told her I would help them run away together.”

“You tried to help the princess elope?” Michael asks, eyebrows shooting up toward his hair.

“Pretty much,” Miles says with a soft smile, clearly fond of the memories. His face falls however. “Except, they got caught and the guy—well he turned me in I guess, to save himself.”

“What a prick.”

Miles snorts. “I guess. I mean, it was either offer me up or die, so I don’t really have any hard feelings. He was a decent guy. So, basically, I was called before the court and they asked me my role in everything and I told them. They asked me if I was sorry I’d done what I had and I said absolutely not.”

“But if you had—“

“If I had apologized, I might not be here,” Miles finishes, voice growing strong. “Maybe. But I was 16 and I wasn’t sorry. Love is _important_ , right?”

Michael stares at the guard in front of him. “They banished you,” he says slowly.

“The only reason I wasn’t killed was because both my dad and brother were in the guard and my mom was the best pie-baker in the kingdom. The king loved her pies,” he says wistfully. “But now I can never go back and—oh my god, I’m totally talking your ear off. You don’t care about this! I’m so sorry, Your Highness!” He flushes red again and looks away from Michael.

“You were _16_ and they banished you?”

Miles’ eyes snap to Michael’s face before he kind of wilts, looks to the floor, and draws in on himself for a brief moment. He straightens again and glances back to Michael. “Uh, yeah. And honestly at this point, I’m not sure what’s worse: being killed, or never seeing my family again.”

“I’m sorry,” Michael hears himself saying, aware that, for what little he knows about Miles, he really does feel badly about his circumstances. “What did you—how did you end up here?”

“I bounced around in Achievement for a while,” Miles says with a small grin. “I have a friend here, though. Kerry. He got me a space in the guard a few months ago, Sire.”

Michael thinks for a moment. “Shawcross, right?”

Miles seems surprised. “Yeah! I didn’t—“

“Expect me to know the names of my guards?” Michael raises an eyebrow at the other man. “ _Care_ enough to know their names?”

“Well you didn’t know mine! Uh, Your Highness.”

“I’ve been away in the Ramsey Kingdom,” Michael explains with a wave of his hand. “You’ve only been here a few months, correct?” Miles nods. “My next inspection of the guard isn’t for another two. I would have learned before then.” Miles gives him a sly look, like he doesn’t believe him, but also doesn’t press the subject.

“I, uh, appreciate you _not_ killing me, Your Highness. It was very kind of you,” he says instead.

Michael waves a hand again. “The only executions that are done in this kingdom are for unforgivable or irredeemable acts. Speaking your mind is neither of those.”

Miles bows low. “Thank you, sir.”

As he turns to leave, Michael stops himself. “You know what, Miles?” The guard’s snaps up to look. “It was actually kind of refreshing to be spoken to as a friend instead of a king. Thank you.” Miles’ mouth drops open in shock and Michael grins as he walks away.

\--------------

He keeps going back. He somehow keeps ending up in the hall where he met Miles at the same time. It starts out as a weekly thing, when he can sleep or he’s frustrated or he just needs a break. Miles still doesn’t talk to him like he’s the king—with the exception of the occasional ‘sir’ or ‘your highness’ when he remembers. Miles talks to Michael like a _friend_ , like an equal. Michael is addicted to it.

The visits become more than weekly. They go from twice a week, to three times, to whatever nights Michael can sneak away. Miles is there most of the time, once or twice it’s a different guard and Michael simply nods and continues on his way but it’s getting harder and harder to convince himself that he’s not _actively_ seeking Miles out.

He learns a lot about Miles. After their second meeting, Miles doesn’t talk about his family again, but he talks about nearly everything else. He seems to never _stop_ talking. Michael learns that though he’s new to the guard, he has risen quickly, volunteering for difficult assignments and performing his tasks well.

“I am lucky to have a guard like you in my kingdom,” Michael blurts out. Miles seems taken aback but his cheeks pink.

“It’s nothing, Your Highness,” he says, brushing the compliment away. “I enjoy my work and I enjoy making you—uh, the kingdom proud.” His cheeks blush deeper rouge and Michael can feel his own start to heat.

“You could—you can call me Michael,” he says carefully. “When we meet here. It feels awfully formal considering the informality of our meetings.” He avoids looking at Miles for a moment but when he does, he sees astonishment on his face.

“Are you—I don’t want to be…improper. I—“

Michael grins at the way Miles sounds so utterly flustered. “I insist,” he says. “I don’t often get to talk to someone as a friend not as their king. It’s wonderful.” He wishes he were not so distracted by Miles’ blush or the way the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles back, still a little unsure. He wishes that the soft light of the candles did not reflect so marvelously in the deep brown of Miles’ eyes. He wishes, and not for the first time, that he could _taste_ the soft, pink of Miles’ bowed lips while his fingers press at the hinge of his jaw.

He wishes that he were not a king and Miles not a guard; that they were just two people in the world free to do as they pleased. He would have kissed Miles _weeks_ ago were that the case.

\---------

Andy has started to notice his distraction, however, and continues to give Michael withering looks as he slips from his quarters each night to return to the hall. There is one night in particular that his advisor steps in his path, holding up a scroll. “You need to look at this.”

“Not now, Andy,” Michael says, impatient. The changing of the guard had happened moments ago and he’s sure Miles is already to his post. “It can wait until morning.” He moves to walk around the other man.

Andy straightens his back and side steps, continuing to block Michael. “No it can’t,” he replies firmly. It’s a tone that Andy does not often take, especially with his king and Michael recognizes it immediately.

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s a witch in the western woods of the kingdom.” Andy holds up the scroll to Michael, who takes it from his hands and skims the information from the guard posted by the forest. “Three children have gone missing.”

“Damn it,” Michael mutters. “Is the witch’s location known other than just ‘western woods’?”

“The guard seems to think they know where she lives but they do not have enough men to go after her.”

Michael considers it briefly, biting at his lip. “Tomorrow, post a notice to the captains that they will choose two men from each of their commands to send to the forest. That will give the western guard an additional ten men, though volunteers may also go if they desire.” He gestures with the scroll. “Come with me, we’ll draft it together.” He feels regret that he will not see Miles, but he is the king and he must put welfare of his people before that of his own heart.


	2. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Witches and potions and pining, OH MY!
> 
> Now with a special surprise guest!

\-----------

The next night, Miles is not at his post, which is not uncommon. He has told Michael in the past that switches with other guards who have ‘obligations or appointments’ during their own shifts. He doesn’t say _families_ , but Michael hears it in the melancholy in his voice.

He’s not there the next night either.

It’s not until the 5th night that Michael breaks. “Shawcross, right?” The guard’s head snaps up and he nods quickly.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Michael steps closer and the guard swallows thickly, like he’s nervous. “You’re the one who got Luna the job, correct?”

The question seems to take Shawcross by surprise. He nods and carefully says, “Yes, sir.”

He hesitates for a moment, trying to find the best way to ask. “Do you—Where is he? I haven’t seen him in nearly a week.”

Kerry tilts his head, seemingly confused by the question. “Sir?”

“I—When I walk the halls at night. We sometimes speak.”

“Oh, yes, Your Highness. I knew that! I was curious that you did not know of his assignment,” Kerry replies, nervously playing with the hem of his uniform.

“Assignment?”

Kerry shifts on his feet and frowns. “Well, it was not as much an assignment as that he volunteered.”

The _witch_.

“Ah,” Michael says, trying to keep the disappointment from his voice. “I must have overlooked the roster of who was being sent.” He can tell that Kerry is eying him strangely, almost as though there is a question on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be asked. He would, at this point, rather not answer it he thinks. “Thank you, Shawcross. Keep up the good work.”

Michael turns on his heel and leaves.

\------

The news comes in late the following night. The team sent to fend off the witch is missing. _Miles_ is missing. Michael rides out to the western border immediately when he hears and is met by the grim faces of his guards.

Only one soldier managed to escape, a young lad of barely 19 and when Michael comes to him, the apologies begin to flow instantaneously from his prone form. “I tried to get the rest of them,” he says as the herbalist from the nearest town changes the dressings on his wounds. “She’s powerful, Your Highness. More than we bargained for. I’m sor—“

“Please,” Michael says, kneeling by his side. There’s a sharp intake of breath, that a king such as himself would lower himself in that way. He forgets that most of his guards from the outer posts don’t get to see this side of him with only the Royal Inspection as an indication of his temperament. “Don’t apologize,” he says, “None of this is your doing and you’ve done well to escape to report to us. What is your name?”

“Jeremy,” the boy replies. “Jeremy Dooley.” He hisses in pain when the healer presses a mixture of herbs and hot water to the gash on his side.

“I know you are tired,” Michael goes on. “I know that this is a lot to ask—“

“Anything for you, sir,” Dooley says immediately, so young and so eager that it brings a small smile to Michael’s face. He decides then and there to have this man moved—if he so chooses—to be in the castle guard. He has great potential given that he escaped the witch and managed to find his way back to the post.

“Could we talk for a moment about what happened?” Michael rests his hand on Jeremy’s shoulder and the boy relaxes against the bed.

Jeremy swallows but nods. “What do you want to know?”

\---------

According to Jeremy, the witch lives deep within with woods in a clearing surrounded by birch trees. “We followed the order of the captain and spread out to surround the cottage,” he says. He’s sitting upright now, next to the fire built in the King’s tent. Michael sits next to him, hands folded in his lap. “I was paired with a man from the castle and we were to attack from the rear of the clearing.” An inquiry of the man’s name sits heavily on Michael’s tongue—it could be _Miles_ —but he doesn’t interrupt. “The second—as soon as we moved forward—“ Jeremy stops and swallows, his arms wrapping about himself.

“It’s okay,” Michael says. He rests a hand on Jeremy’s forearm and squeezes lightly. “Take your time.”

“The second the first man’s foot hit the grass within the clearing, it felt…it felt like a knife in my ribs,” he gestures down to his side. “I wasn’t bleeding, not yet at least, but the air smelled of magic. It was acrid—almost like sulfur. I collapsed.” His hands are shaking and Michael feels a surge of anger, wishing he had thought more about sending in his men so blindly.

Jeremy takes a deep breath. “The next thing I knew, someone was lifting me from under my arms and pushing me back into the woods. When I caught my breath and looked, I could see—the ground was opening up and men were falling into it but it stopped at the edge, like the trees were a fence keeping it inside.” Michael signals and one of the guards brings a cup of water, which he offers to the boy. Jeremy takes it gratefully and sips the cool drink. “I tried to grab him but—I couldn’t—he was being pulled back by the magic and my side had been split.”

“Grab who?” Michael asks.

“My partner,” Jeremy says, eyes shining in the firelight. “The one who pushed me away before the ground gave way. I tried, Your Highness, I really did.”

Michael’s heart aches for what the boy has been through. “That’s all you could have done, Jeremy. No one can fault you.”

“He kept telling me to run, even when my hands were slipping from his arm.” Jeremy wipes quickly at his eyes. “ _Get away_ , he said but I didn’t want to leave him—leave any of them. _If you don’t run now, you’ll never make it_ and he wrenched his arm from my hands. _Get the King_ he said.”

“Jeremy—“

The boy looks up at him then. “He said something strange before I ran.” Michael furrows his brow and leans forward. “He said _And tell the King, ‘love is important’_. It was the last thing before he pushed me away again and I don’t—“

Michael freezes, feels his blood run cold. “His name.”

“Sire?”

“The man, what was his name?”

“Miles, sir. Miles Luna.”

\---------------

It takes an enormous amount of willpower for Michael to _not_ go charging into the forest. They have no idea whether or not the men taken by the witch are even still alive, but according to the elder from the nearby village, the chances that she’s saving them to use in dark magic are high.

It does nothing to quell the worry in the pit of Michael’s stomach.

Jeremy attempts to insist joining the march back into the forest but Michael squashes that idea immediately. He instead, sends the boy back to the castle in a carriage after offering him a position within the grounds as a new guard.

The group, with Michael at the head, begin the trek into the woods just after daybreak. Many are his own men from the castle but there are a few from the surrounding towns. A boy hardly older than Jeremy, a tall man cloaked in black, a man who has seen many a witch-hunt if the grey in his beard is any evidence. The forest is unusually quiet, no birds or animals scurrying about, not even a breeze to rustle the underbrush. Michael feels the stillness in his bones, a foreboding feeling that has his skin prickling and his palms sweating. It seems like an eternity before they come to the clearing Jeremy described and Michael halts the company at the edge. The tall birch trees are indeed like a fence around the area.

He steps forward but doesn’t break the line of the trees. “I would like to speak to dwells here,” he calls loudly. His voice seems to sink into the very ground, absorbed by the grass and the small cottage in the center.

“So one _did_ escape,” a voice returns. It’s sickly sweet, a voice that could belong to a fair maiden. He can’t see her but it sounds as though she’s standing at his side. She laughs and beside him, one of Michael’s captains shivers. “Either that or you’re smarter than the last King I met.”

“I’m sure we can come to agreement,” Michael says. “I would like to apologize for sending my men to your home.”

“A better liar too,” she giggles. “You reek of _desperation_. For what, I wonder?” Michael frowns, his hand sliding to his sword. “Or,” she goes on, “is it for _whom_?”

“I would see my men returned to me,” he says, hoping that his voice remains strong. “And the children of the town.”

She _tsks_ and the door of the cottage finally opens. A woman steps out into the sunlight, her body wrapped in a shawl that glitters in the light. Michael can’t determine what she looks like past her general shape and the curls of dark hair on her head. It’s almost like an aura is preventing a clear view. He knows he can see her but he can’t _see_ her. “Your Highness, do you really think the children are still here?”

Michael clenches his jaw and takes a step foreword, though careful to remain outside. “My men?”

The witch waves her hand, like she’s bored of his questions already. “Some are still living.”

He can feel his anger rising and despite knowing it’s what she wants, he’s sure its showing on his face. Michael breathes deeply and the witch grins. “I would _appreciate_ if you could return them to me.”

“And what do I get?” she hums. “What would a King give to the _evil_ witch in exchange?”

“What do you want?” he asks.

“Amnesty. Freedom from further _visits_ like this.”

“If I give you that, you will continue to torment my people,” Michael growls. “You can’t continue to kidnap children.” The witch steps into her small garden and begins to pull weeds as she laughs.

“There is a price to everything, Your Highness,” she says. “What are the lives of a few brats against the life of the man you love?” Michael’s heart skips and his hand clench into fists at her words. The witch cackles, pleased by his reaction. “Ah, yes. He reeks as well. Reeks of unrequited affection and sadness. It’s a pity he’ll die not knowing that perhaps it is not quite so unrequited.”

“You’re making me choose between my men and the lives of _children_ ,” he hisses. “What sort of creature does that?”

She stands and points to herself. “Hello? Witch. It’s not as if I’m the first one you’ve met, King _Michael_ ,” she snarls, the sweetness dropping from her voice. The aura surrounding her pulses an angry red before returning. She takes a breath and regains her composure, smiling. “I’m sure you’ve vanquished _many_ witches in your time.”

“I don’t—“

“Think about it, Your _Highness_ ,” she interrupts. “Really think about all the witches you’ve killed and run from their homes. You and the other kings of this land really pride yourself on slaughtering my brothers and sisters.” There is a rustling behind him and Michael breaks his line of sight on her for a moment. The tall man in the black cloak has stepped forward and he’s holding something in his hand.

“You kill innocent people,” Michael says, turning his attention back to her.

“Is anyone truly innocent?” she counters, her grin turning to something dangerous. “I will give you back your men, give you back the one who you desire most but for the rest of your life, you will be known to your people as the one who traded his own happiness for theirs.”

The man in the black cloak presses what he was holding into Michael’s hand and he discovers that it is a potion. A potion in a very familiar bottle, as familiar almost, as the smile that peeks from under the black hood.

He knows exactly what to do.

Before the witch can utter another word, Michael uncorks the potion and downs it in one go. Her head snaps toward him. “No,” she says, “No! What—“

He doesn’t wait for the warmth of the drink to even permeate his whole body and charges into the clearing while his captains yell after him. The witch lets out a scream and the stench of dark magic begins to fill the air as she shoots spell after spell at him. “He’s not supposed to be here!” she wails. A spell strikes Michael directly in the chest but he bursts through the smoke, face set and determined as he draws back his sword, all the anger and frustration he’s kept in check coming to the surface.

The witch stumbles back in the face of his fury, the face of King Michael, the Warrior King who has always lived up to the name. “If you kill me,” she sputters, “you will never find them. You can look and look but only I have the—“ Her babbling is cut off in a scream as he slices through her wrist, severing it from her body.

“Then tell me where they are,” he demands, his eyes dark and dangerous. “Tell me and your life might be spared. Lie to me and I’ll remove the rest of your limbs as well.”

She cradles her arm against her body, hunched over the bleeding stump. “ _Might be spared_ , he says,” she laughs hollowly. “Might. After all this, I’m to believe you would spare me?”

“He will,” a voice says from behind him. “We both will, despite the trouble you’ve caused.” The man in the black cloak steps forward and removes his hood. The sunlight gleams where it’s reflected in his golden crown. The crack in the side is a clear indication of who he is.

“Ryan,” Michael starts but holds his question when the King lifts his hand.

“We will spare you if you give us the men and drink from this flask,” he says, holding out a plain looking bottle. The witch gasps, shaking her head.

“I will lose _everything_ ,” she cries. “I will lose my magic!”

Ryan shrugs, clapping his hand on Michael’s back. “It is your choice,” he says. “Your magic or your life. I’m sure King Michael would much rather have you choose the latter.” The witch looks from the flask to Michael’s sword, still dripping with her blood and makes a frustrated noise. She waves her remaining hand at the garden and the ground begins to collapse in, revealing a pit. Michael scrambles to the side and peers over, breathing a sigh of relief when he sees the men of his kingdom although all appear to be in a deep sleep. He searches the faces and finally comes lands on the one he’d been most anxious to see. Miles looks almost peaceful in his state, even with his hair disheveled and a deep bruise on his cheek.

When Michael turns back, the witch has the flask pressed to her lips as Ryan watches. The aura around her fades in increments, leaving behind a middle-aged woman with pale skin and dark hair. She finishes and collapses to the ground. Ryan kneels and carefully wraps her wrist in bandages that Michael knows from experience, are soaked in healing potions.

He turns away then, leaving Ryan to the witch—whom he would still like to kill, given the chance—and gestures for the men still beyond the trees to begin hauling out the sleeping prisoners. Michael sighs as they set to work, knowing there is much to be done before the night falls.

\--------

“How did you know to come?” he asks Ryan when they return to camp. The captured men are beginning to wake and Michael begins to breathe easier.

Ryan grins at him and shakes his head. “I have my ways,” he says conspiratorially. “If I give up all my secrets, where is the fun in that?”

Michael rolls his eyes as they walk together between the tents. “Fine then, keep your secrets. What will happen with the witch?”

“She’s no longer a witch,” Ryan says simply. “I gave her permission to travel to my lands if she chooses, but she is a mortal now. For some of her kind, it is a fate _worse_ than death. A banishment, so to speak.” The term jogs a memory and Michael thinks of the first time he’d really spoken to Miles. He is one of the men who has not yet begun to rouse and it worries Michael. Ryan seems to read it on his face. He grins and pokes Michael’s cheek. “I never thought I’d see the day when Mogar, the fiercest warrior in the kingdom would be so distraught over a man.”

“Shut up,” Michael says, batting at his friend’s hand. “I’m not—“ he pauses, trying to collect his thoughts. “Is it selfish of me to want him?”

Ryan stops them, setting a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “If you move forward with him, will it affect your rule of the kingdom?”

“I don’t—“

“Will neglect your duties as king?”

Michael frowns. “No.”

“Will you stop caring for the people under your rule?” Ryan asks.

“No, that’s—“

“Then I don’t see how being with the one you desire would make you selfish,” he says. “There are many ways we can fail as kings, Michael. One of those is not letting ourselves be happy because we think we don’t deserve to be or because we think we must put others first.”

Michael blinks and smiles up at Ryan. “When did you get so smart, Rye-bread?” he asks, resting his hand on the one placed on his shoulder.

Ryan scoffs. “I’ve always been this smart. You all just never listen,” he laughs. “Now, take this and go to the guard who’s seemingly tamed the wild beast.” He holds out a vial in his hand. “It will wake him, most assuredly.”

“A potion?” Michael asks.

Ryan waves a hand. “Nah, just fermented goat’s urine. Stick it under his nose. It smells _awful_.”

\-------

The urine, unsurprisingly, works like a charm. Miles jolts awake, pawing at Michael and nearly making him spill the cursed liquid. “What the _hell_ is that?” he shouts, rubbing at his nose. It takes a few seconds before he realizes where he is. “Michael?”

Sure that the cap is on tightly, Michael tosses the vial behind him and reaches out to brush his fingers along the bruise on Miles’ cheek. “It’s good to see you,” he says, unsure of what else to say. It’s beyond _good_ to see him. It was good when he knew Miles was still alive but to see him up and hear him speaking is even better.

Miles grins and covers Michael’s hand with his own where it’s pressed against his cheek. “I dreamt of you,” he sighs. “Though maybe I’m still dreaming? I wouldn’t mind it in the least.”

“Not dreaming,” Michael says. “You’re awake and here.”

“It seems too much like my dreams,” Miles hums, closing his eyes. “To have the king give me this much attention, I must be dreaming.”

Michael’s thumb brushes the swell of Miles’ cheek. “How can I prove it isn’t a dream then?”

“Kiss me,” Miles suggests with a laugh though it sounds more sad than it should. “I’ll know it’s real when you refuse.”

“What if I don’t?” Michael asks, leaning in and pausing close enough that he can feel Miles’ breath against his skin. Miles opens his eyes and his lips part with the beginning of a question when Michael closes the distance and kisses him like he’s wanted to since that first night in the hall.

It’s unclear which of them makes the soft noise in the quiet of the tent but the next thing Michael knows, one of Miles’ large hands is resting on his neck and the other is gripping his thigh while he revels in the heat of Miles’ mouth. It’s nothing like he’s imagined and yet, somehow entirely better in every way. They part and Michael pushes back in immediately, chasing the soft swell of Miles’ lips with his tongue and his teeth until he feels hands pushing him back enough that they can both catch their breath. Even as he moves to sit back in his chair, however, Miles grips his wrist to keep him close.

“Michael,” he croaks, eyes still closed. “Michael is this _real_?”

“Yes, if you’ll have me,” Michael replies, brushing back the hair from Miles’ forehead. He tangles their fingers together and brings the back of Miles’ hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the smooth skin. “I want to spend my days compromising with you. Caring for you and letting you _balance_ me. After all,” he says as Miles opens up his eyes, and he can only marvel in the way they _shine_ just so in the candlelight, “ _love is important_.”


End file.
